


Something nice, once in a while

by CamilleDuDemon



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Birthday Party, Established Relationship, Geralt is a big old grumpy loner, Jaskier wants to do something nice, M/M, Ops my hand slipped, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, domestic undertones, fake birthday, too much fluff really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22550077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: It’s a quiet winter night, the first in weeks they get to spend in a warm place, sleeping on a real bead instead of nesting in the hay in some shitty barn. Thanks to Geralt, mostly, by the way: he has taken up a contract, an easy job since it’s winter and even monsters seem to appear rather rarely during the chilly season, and aside from some bruises and a slight limp in his right leg – which will go away as soon as the muscle recovers in full, two or three days at most – things have gone as smooth as silk.The silence of the village is quite relaxing for both of them. No one dares to venture outside this late with the snow still falling, not on their own volition at least. Even the tavern downstairs is peaceful, though it’s still early in the night and drunkards are supposed to be loud until midnight, more or less.Yet.Geralt thinks that he could get used to this. Dangerous thought indeed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 122





	Something nice, once in a while

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alittlelark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlelark/gifts).



_“So. I was thinking…”_

Geralt doesn’t like when Jaskier starts a sentence by saying _“I was thinking”_ or _“I think”._ Most of the times, it means that the bard is going to do something stupid – in some cases potentially life-threatening, even – so he can’t help but grunt in a very ungraceful way at his words, grunt to which Jaskier responds with a childish pout – and that’s his safe conduct to say whatever the fuck he wants, Geralt can’t say no when he pouts like that.

“Yes, Jaskier?”

The bard, plopped on the small bed right next to him, turns on his side, wrapping his leg carelessly around Geralt under the thick blanket and yawning without bothering to cover his mouth with his hand.

It’s a quiet winter night, the first in weeks they get to spend in a warm place, sleeping on a real bead instead of nesting in the hay in some shitty barn. Thanks to Geralt, mostly, by the way: he has taken up a contract, an easy job since it’s winter and even monsters seem to appear rather rarely during the chilly season, and aside from some bruises and a slight limp in his right leg – which will go away as soon as the muscle recovers in full, two or three days at most – things have gone as smooth as silk.

The silence of the village is quite relaxing for both of them. No one dares to venture outside this late with the snow still falling, not on their own volition at least. Even the tavern downstairs is peaceful, though it’s still early in the night and drunkards are supposed to be loud until midnight, more or less.

_Yet._

Geralt thinks that he could get used to this. Dangerous thought indeed.

“I was thinking if you remember anything about your nameday”, Jaskier says, gesturing vaguely with his pale, slender hand. Geralt grabs it gently, placing a chaste kiss on the thin, delicate skin of his wrist, eliciting a chuckle that reverberates through his bones, warming him up better than the roaring fireplace in the corner.

“Nameday? What’s a nameday?”

Jaskier gives him a look of _pure shock_ that Geralt doesn’t understand. Is he supposed to know everything, since he’s quite old for the human standard? Frankly, the look in Jaskier’s eyes feels somehow insulting.

“Your…birthday, Geralt? The date of your birth?”

The witcher frowns.

“What’s so important with the date of my birth?”

“Oh. You really don’t know anything about it, don’t you?”

“About my date of birth? Of course I don’t know my date of birth, Jaskier, I barely know who my mother was, how should I know about my…how did you call it? Nameday? Birthday?”

He is not _angry,_ per se. Geralt is never really angry at Jaskier, though sometimes he comes down a little hard on him – he doesn’t intend to, not always by the way, but he’s never been good at dealing with feelings in general, not to mention how rusty his social skills are. Truth is, being a witcher leads you down a lonely path. Geralt doesn’t remember having had any meaningful relationship with anyone outside of the ancient walls of Kaer Morhen and, all things considered, Jaskier is keen to excuse his brooding, his long silences and his grumpy attitude.

“Well, I didn’t mean -- you see, I was talking about the tradition. Like…receiving gifts for your birthday, maybe throwing a party, something like that…” Jaskier brushes a strand of white, silky hair from Geralt’s forehead. Then, his long finger travels down the witcher’s cheekbone, outlining it, then moves to his lips, where Geralt reverently kisses the pad. “You look like someone who has been born in winter, anyway”, he goes on, “Sharp angles and chiseled lips…”

The witcher shrugs. He doesn’t know and he never cared. No one threw birthday parties at Kaer Morhen, since most of the witchers couldn’t even remember their birthplace or the face of their mother after the Trial of the Grasses. _Witchers don’t have much use for birthday parties._

“Maybe you’re right, maybe not. You can’t know that for sure.”

“I give you that, but I may make up a date of birth for you, who knows.”

“Why should I need it?”

The tone in Geralt’s voice is one of genuine confusion. Jaskier grins, kicking him playfully in his butt with his heel.

“Oh, come on, it’s for the sake of the tradition! It’s for the gifts, the pie, the ale – you’ll agree that even a grumpy, old witcher needs something nice, once in a while…”

As much as Geralt hates to admit it, the bard’s got a point. He wouldn’t mind something nice, now that he and Jaskier aren’t desperately looking for money, shelter and a meal.

“Hm.”

“So?”

“So what?”

The bard rolls his eyes, half annoyed, half amused.

“Your birthday. Will you indulge me in this, please?”

Yet again. How could Geralt say no to those big, pleading eyes? Reputation be damned, Jaskier could do whatever he pleases with him, if he looks at him with those eyes.

“If I do, will you let us both sleep? I’m tired.”

“Of course I will. No more talking for tonight. Promise.”

The big, old, grumpy witcher sighs in defeat.

“Fine, then”, he says. Jaskier’s content purring – before meeting him he didn’t even know that humans could, in facts, _purr_ – and the strong, steady beat of his heart lull him to sleep.

***

Morning comes early. _Definitely too early._

The ramshackle shudders can’t keep the white light of another snowy day at bay, and even though Geralt tries to avoid getting blinded by it covering his closed eyes with his forearm, it’s all in vain. Witchers are made to be light sleepers, after all.

Jaskier stirs ungracefully at his side, inadvertently elbowing him in the ribs. He doesn’t flinch, although the other man has surprisingly managed to hit where a purpling bruise was starting to fade, pretending to be still asleep instead; he knows the bard loves to watch him sleep – he isn’t really asleep, most of the times, but he lets Jaskier have his fun nonetheless.

“Like what you see?”, he hums, after a while. He hears Jaskier chuckle quietly, then the rustling of the blanket being pulled.

A soft kiss on the lips. Chaste. Warm. Familiar.

“Can’t complain”, the bard whispers on the corner of his mouth.

_Time to rise and shine._

Geralt cracks his eyes open, adjusting his pupils to accommodate the blinding light, and basks in the sight of his naked lover pouring water into a chipped bowl and washing his face with vigorous splashes. Each splash of freezing water triggers a muffled squeal, which make the witcher’s mouth curl instantly into a smile.

“You’re up early. Got something to do?”

“A lot of things, actually”, he casually says, putting on his old, ochre-colored doublet and his matching trousers. There’s a small hole in the fabric; Geralt has considered sewing it, but he has given up miserably once he has found out he doesn’t have any thread, nor a needle, in his saddlebags.

“Like what?”, the witcher teases. Jaskier gives him a smug look, a cunning half-smile plastered on his beautiful lips.

Geralt longs to devour those lips, he really wants to kiss him senseless right now, but Jaskier seems to have something else entirely in mind.

Truth to be told, he’s not sure he should be okay with that, given Jaskier’s tendency to end up in trouble.

“Like that kind of things that don’t involve your presence, for example.”

The bard is smiling. Big smile, eyes shining with happiness, his entire figure almost _glowing._

No, Geralt shouldn’t definitely trust him with this.

_Still._

“May I know the reason, at least? So that I don’t get consumed by unanswered questions while you’re out, doing your things, you know.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. Ah!” He rummages through his stuff. He travels light, very light, nowadays, aside from his lute he only carries a bag, and from that bag he retrieves a small leather-bound book – a luxury thing made for travelers, a little treat he has bought in Oxenfurt a couple of summers ago. He hands it to the witcher before getting back at putting on his boots. “To occupy your time while I’m away. I’d like you to stay inside, consider yourself to be my prisoner for today. It’s a shorter version of a _Universal History of Poetry,_ something you haven’t read yet. I’ll have the maid come up with your breakfast, I don’t remember if you like herbal tea, do you like herbal tea Geralt?”

_Normally,_ Geralt wouldn’t be so patient with someone’s bullshit but – said bullshit is about Jaskier. He wonders if he’s gotten soft with the years and, sadly, the answer is yes, undoubtedly yes, a thousand times yes.

“No. Herbal tea smells like hay, I’ve had enough for a while, thanks.”

“Oh. Right. I’ll tell the maid to bring you something else, then.”

“Wait. What about the whole prisoner shit, Jaskier? Does it mean that I have to stay inside these four walls or…?”

Jaksier nods.

“Yes. I’d like you to.”

“But I need to practice with the sword, stretch my legs, breathe fresh air. I’m not an indoor person, Jaskier.”

“I know, but be patient with me, would you? Besides, your fatigued muscle needs to rest. Some hours relaxing and reading would do no harm, right?”

Geralt mutters a faint _‘I suppose so’_ under his breath. He doesn’t understand what game is Jaskier playing right now, and he isn’t sure it would be a good idea to let him wander around the village alone, still…he can’t be his bodyguard all the time, can he?

Something ain’t right, though. He can feel it in his guts, and his guts are rarely wrong.

“What are you up to, Jaskier? You lock me up, give me something to read and you even have a maid come upstairs to bring me breakfast. Be honest, will I regret trusting you on whatever you’re doing?”

The bard shakes his head.

“Lips sealed, sorry. You don’t have to worry, though. Won’t take long and…I’ll be safe.”

Geralt really, really wants to believe that.

When Jaskier leaves their shared room, though, he feels his stomach churn.

_He’ll be safe,_ he tells himself. _He’ll be safe, he hasn’t made anyone a cuckhold here, nor seduced any daughter nor stable boy...yet. We’ve never been here before. Everything is going to be fine._

***

When the maid comes back for the second time, Geralt can say by the wonderful smells coming both from inside the inn and from the village that it’s already noon. The _Universal History of Poetry_ is quite a fascinating reading, he’s two chapters from the end now. The maid – a young woman called Nessa, a graceless little thing with black eyes and dirty hair – carries a bunch of folded clothes.

“The bard told me to fetch you this. He says you’re not allowed to complain about the dub…the doub…”

“He said I’m not allowed to complain about the doublet? Why?”

She shrugs, taking an instinctive step back when Geralt tries to get close and free her from the bundle of clothes in her hand. Like everyone else, she feels intimidated by witchers – and, as the story goes, she probably thinks that they carry nasty diseases, or that seeing one is some kind of a bad omen. Perhaps she does believe both of those sayings.

“Dunno. He just sent me over to give you the clothes. He said that you have to come downstairs then.”

Geralt nods with a soft grunt. Nessa is very quick to flee out of the room and give the witcher some privacy to change.

Just as he expected, Jaskier has provided him with clothes he’ll never wear willingly, cheap yet garish stuff that make him feel like an idiot, too tight in places where a piece of clothing shouldn’t be this revealing. And, besides, the doublet’s sleeves are too short, so short they don’t fully cover his wrists.

He huffs at that but, just like Jaskier has instructed, he doesn’t complain. Not aloud, at least.

Surprisingly enough, the tavern downstairs is empty.

Save for Jaskier – he could smell him everywhere, his powerful scent of cologne and cloves can literally wipe away the years of filth accumulated over the wooden floor – who is, for some reason, hiding behind the counter.

Geralt frowns, his senses alert in a sort of automatic physical response.

“Jaskier? Why are you…hiding?”

He hears the bard huff and get on his feet with an elven curse.

“You spoiled my surprise. I hate your nose sometimes, you know that?”

The witcher lets out a husky chuckle, relaxing.

“A surprise for what, exactly?”, he asks, fondly.

“I have decided that today is your birthday, Geralt. This was supposed to be some sort of a private birthday party but I see there’s no point in hiding from your super senses. I should have known, now that I think about it. Anyway, I’ll sing something for you, later. Now close your eyes.”

There are many things Geralt would like to say, now. One, for example, is that today isn’t his real birthday or nameday or whatever. Then, he really, really wants to complain about the size of the doublet. Most of all, he wants to tell Jaskier that he doesn’t understand what use are birthday parties for, especially with someone like him, a lone wolf who doesn’t give a shit about traditions and has never had a birthday party before – _let alone a real, irrefutable date of birth._

He doesn’t say any of this, though.

Jaskier is happy, what’s the point of spoiling his fun? As he said, they both need something nice, for once. Life can’t be all fighting, getting injured, recovering and fighting again: if there’s something Jaskier has taught him, that would be the strange feeling of _needing something more_ that he now experiences when the bard sleeps on his chest and he feels, finally, at peace.

A birthday party could be considered part of this _‘something more’_ that he craves.

The warm scent of freshly baked pie makes him snap out of his thoughts all of a sudden. His stomach growls loudly at the smell of dough and mixed berry jam. He can smell honey, too. Apple pectin. Spices from the kitchen. Jaskier’s cologne.

The bard kisses him, apparently unbothered by the fact that they may not be alone, then he suggests him to open his eyes.

“Happy birthday, Geralt. Or nameday, if you prefer. See, ‘birthday’ is the most common way to call it, but the more you get north, the less you’ll hear it. Since Kaer Morhen is located in the mountains, I suppose they call this ‘nameday’ in the area. I’m not sure, though.”

The witcher smiles.

“Never heard of it, I’m afraid I can’t be of any help.”

“Yeah, well. we can live with that, can we?”

The witcher nods.

It feels extraordinarily good to have something nice, once in a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tinynerdkitten's birthday, in a haste so it could be online before midnight.
> 
> "The greatest gift and honor would be having you as a sister".  
> Love ya, sweetie. Enjoy your 22s <3


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